There are moments when I don’t know if I’m sleeping or not. Moments where I wake up with another version of myself laying on top of me, her head resting on my belly. Sleep-doused girls with my nose and my eyes and my family's curly hair. Every year, my mother celebrates the anniversary of her miscarriages. Shoeboxes of ultrasounds, fruit tart from the diner with the scabbed leather booths and the tablecloths the flies can't help but stick to. We don’t throw out much around here. Wipe the plates clean. When the girls finally sleep, I put my fingers in their mouths and check for rotten teeth. It isn't time yet, not now. People spent centuries debating the difference between a gift and a lame horse. Most nights, I watch movies where people fall in love, and then destroy each other. No one wanted that dog to die. No one ever wants the dog to die.